A Little Affliction
by LilyBaggins
Summary: Non-slash. Frodo suffers from a seemingly minor ailment many readers can likely sympathize with.
1. Wisdom

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 1/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Author's Note: While the Frodo in my head is always movie-verse Frodo, I am going to point out that here, I'm really following movie-verse by making Frodo 33 when he leaves on the Quest, just as it appears in the movie. It will become clear as you read why I'm doing this. :)   
  
And no, I have no idea why I'm writing this. I have a bit of writer's block on "Mathom," and this plot bunny just up and well, you know. I will continue "Mathom" when I get out of the lull.  
  
*****  
  
Wine glasses clinked, forks and knives scraped, and laughter rang out around our heavily laden table. It was a festive occasion---what was not to be happy about? Sauron was defeated and many comrades had been reunited. At the head of the table sat the King and Queen, their faces smiling as they toasted their guests in merriment.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, you're starin' at that lamb chop again instead of eating it."  
  
I admit, I had *not* been eating very much, despite the numerous pairs of eyes watching me and gauging every bite I put in my mouth. They meant well---all of them---but it *did* grow just a bit wearisome at times. However, I reminded myself---if they had not initially pressured me to eat after waking in Ithilien, I might not be here right now.   
  
"All right, Sam . . . I'll try a bit more of it, if that will make you happy." It did look and smell appetizing, golden brown and perfectly seasoned. And my appetite was nearly in full working order---that had little to do with why I hadn't been eating well.   
  
Cutting the chop with my knife and fork as best I could with my maimed hand, I cautiously took a bite---and regretted it. As I bit down, a sharp pain in the back of my jaw flared up---that blasted nagging tooth again.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?"   
  
I scowled at him---not in irritation, really, but because it was nearly impossible to do anything BUT scowl with this pain assailing my mouth. Ah . . . in the left side of my jaw, very far in the back . . .   
  
"I'm sorry, Sam---my tooth aches just a bit. Nothing to worry about, but chewing is most unpleasant."  
  
His eyes grew wide as he stared at me. "That tooth is still hurting you? A bad tooth ain't nothing to make light of, master. Why . . . my Aunt Willow died from a corruption of the jaw. Begging your pardon, sir, but you ought to get Strider to look at it."  
  
I stared at him over the rim of my wine glass. "I'm sure I don't have a 'corruption,' Sam. And besides, one of the healers in Lothlorien looked at it long ago. He said it was my 'wisdom' teeth coming in---you know, mortals get a third set of crunching teeth when they come of age. It can be painful---like a teething baby, I suppose. He gave me some powder to put on it, though I've none left."  
  
"You still ought to get Strider to look at it."  
  
"That's King Elessar to us, Sam, and I'm quite certain he now has better things to do with his time than poke around in hobbit mouths scrutinizing their teeth." As I said it, I took a sip of the wine, cringing as the cool liquid flowed over the raw-feeling area.   
  
*****  
  
The next three days were nearly enough to make me regret my prior words to Sam. The pain in my mouth was growing worse---nearly a constant ache---interrupting my sleeping and my eating. A few days earlier I had been able to chew on one side; now it hurt to even work my jaw.   
  
And that morning when I had gotten out of bed to wash up I looked in the mirror, quite shocked at how pale and tired I appeared from such a minute thing as a tooth coming in. I even felt the a tad feverish, but I had grown up in Brandy Hall among youngsters and knew that even tiny hobbits cutting teeth often had slight temperatures.   
  
Opening my mouth as widely as I could, I did my best to peer inside. Whatever it was, it did not look pleasant---I could tell that the gum around the sore area was whitish, surrounded by intense redness and swelling. And I fancied, as I pressed a bit on my cheek and jaw, which I should probably not have done, that my face on that one side was slightly swollen. Ah well . . . such is the price we pay for maturing. It was a natural thing I was undergoing.   
  
Breakfast that morning was not a pleasant affair. I sat watching Sam and Pip and Merry eat their eggs and sugar-basted ham and honeyed rolls and fresh strawberry jam and had to pretend to be hungry---and chew without pain. I was able to eat a few of the scrambled eggs and small pieces of roll---but not much before I just gave up, feeling miserable.  
  
"Frodo . . . is your face swollen?"  
  
At Merry's words both Sam and Pippin of course raised their heads from their plates and treated me to intense scrutiny.   
  
"Swollen? Of course not." I did my best to smile.   
  
"Well, you did have that bit of a toothache a coupla days ago, sir," Sam reminded.  
  
"A toothache?" Merry asked, and grinned. "Overindulging in sweets again, cousin? Who can blame you, after so long without. But if you keep hurting, you should let someone see to that, you know."  
  
"I will," I promised, wanting to turn the conversation away from my health and suddenly feeling very tired even though I'd just risen from bed. "If it pains me too badly I shan't hesitate to seek help for it." The truth was, I was terrified to seek help---I had never had much experience with having my teeth worked on before and was determined to ride out the pain if I could.  
  
"As I said earlier, sir, you ought to get Strider to look at it," said Sam, speaking around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.   
  
I couldn't help but smile as I shook my head. Sam would never change. "Sam, all three of you are younger than I am---you have this to look forward to also. It's nothing . . . if it gets worse I'll go to a place I spotted down the road a bit and get some more powder to ease the ache."  
  
I gingerly took a bite of egg, hoping I was convincing.  
  
To be continued 


	2. The Toothdrawer

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 2/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Author's Note: While the Frodo in my head is always movie-verse Frodo, I am going to point out that here, I'm really following movie-verse by making Frodo 33 when he leaves on the Quest, just as it appears in the movie. It will become clear as you read why I'm doing this. :)   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this next section. If it squicks you, please don't continue. Also . . . I've had several reviewers say they are/might be getting their wisdom teeth out soon, and I *really* apologize for putting Frodo through such pain and suffering! Remember . . . he lives in a world without antibiotics---thank goodness we don't!  
  
*****  
  
A day later, the constant agony in my mouth had become nearly too much to bear. I felt so tired, and a chill passed over me as I stared at the broken-down building Sam and I were about to enter. We'd had to walk further than I'd remembered to find it, but I was hoping the practitioner here might have some medicine to offer before I drastically resorted to asking Aragorn or Lord Elrond to treat a simple toothache. Moreover, I did not even know if Elrond was in the City---for he had been riding out often with his sons on excursions to Mount Mindolluin and other sights of Gondor.   
  
I sighed; the throb a reminder that I had no choice but to follow through. The sign over the door said, "TOOTH-DRAWER. EXTRACTIONS. FALSE TEETH. PYORRHEA TREATED." Whatever else it might look like, it did *not* appear to be the place one might go to for better health.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, let's go. Let Strider or Elrond or Mr. Gandalf help you, sir---"  
  
"No," I said emphatically. "Everyone's duty toward looking after me is finished, Sam. I can take care of myself. It's just as minor thing, really---he'll give me a poultice to suck on or some sort of herb to help the pain, I'm certain., and that will take care of it. Now, are you coming in? If not, I shall go on my own."  
  
Sam looked skeptical, but followed me through the door. Just before we entered I turned to him, "Remember---don't tell him who we are. If he finds out we know the King he might charge more coin than I am carrying."   
  
A lone man was inside the dark, grimy place, sharpening some metal files. Of course I knew the person treating me would be a human, being in Minas Tirith---but he was altogether quite frightening---tall and meaty, with a bald head sporting a fringe of long hair that waved about his ears. Upon hearing the door open, he gave us a perfunctory glance as his eyes widened in irritation.  
  
"Run along, now, you---I don't work on milk teeth."  
  
Sam was so irritated he verily sputtered. "Milk teeth? We're not children, sir . . . we're hobbits! Or, halflings, that'd be to you."  
  
"Halflings?" The man's voice was just as raspy and unpleasant as the rest of him as he knelt down before us, staring. "I've heard of halflings in the city lately---apparently a lot of goings on that I have no time to pay attention to. I'm Vinarion, been here years but never seen one of your types before. Which one of you is ailing?"  
  
Gulping, I answered, my voice quite a bit higher than I'd intended in my fright, and a bit slurred from pain, as well. "I've, I've a sore tooth . . ."  
  
He approached me and stood looming. "I thought it must be you---you look right puny. Well, you've come to the right place." Unceremoniously he grabbed my shoulders and forced my head back, one large hand clamping about my chin. "Open your mouth."  
  
I complied, trying not to recoil at the smell of his breath so close. Before I could react he stuck one grimy finger in and prodded the my swollen gum. Of course, this hurt, and I could not hold back a whimper of pain. Behind me I could nearly feel Sam's eyes boring into the man.   
  
"It's surely a sore tooth, all right, and will have to come out," Vinarion said, shaking his head and removing his finger, much to my relief. "Let me get things fixed up---I've never treated a halfling; that tooth's far back there, and what with your small mouth and all I'm hoping I don't have to use the heavy stuff."  
  
"Heavy stuff?"  
  
"The big pinchers. If the tooth's stubborn, sometimes I have to crack it or cut---deep into the bone."  
  
I swallowed hard. I hadn't planned on having the tooth extracted, just getting something to ease the pain. "But I thought it was just a . . . an extra crunching tooth. I thought the pain would go away in time."  
  
He shook his head. "See, it's come in crooked---it's got to be yanked or you'll just be worse off."  
  
Sam looked at me with his mouth set firmly, mentally willing me to walk out. However . . . I was here, and could having the tooth pulled be any more painful than what I was enduring? If the pain would never go away otherwise, I had no choice.   
  
"Will you . . . will you be able to give me anything for the pain?"  
  
He nodded, scratching his head. "Yes, yes, you won't feel a thing. I must tell you----I might have to pull the tooth next to it too, but I don't have any false teeth to fit the likes of you. We might could fashion you one from an oliphaunt tusk, but it would take some time and cost. Now, I'll be right back---sit there."  
  
I tried to look back at Sam, but was suddenly was swept off my feet and lifted by the man's meaty hands into a cold wooden chair, where I sat, legs dangling, suddenly quite terrified.   
  
Vinarion left the room and Sam and I looked about the place. Unwittingly my eyes fell on a table next to the chair, which was full of dull metal instruments of all kinds---pinchers, tongs----and many sharp hooked objects that resembled small picks. Some of which, upon closer inspection, looked to have a dark dried substance on them. I turned back around, trying to still the quivering in my body, only to see Sam staring at my white-knuckled grip on the chair arms.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, let's leave right----"  
  
"No!" I hissed. "I can survive a Nazgul wound, I can survive a bit of work on my tooth, for heaven's----"  
  
The man came back with a dripping mug of something that looked vile. "Here you go---drink up."  
  
I took the mug, having to use both hands to hold it, and sniffed distastefully. "All of this?"   
  
"Yup . . . drink it all . . . you won't be feeling any pain, I guarantee."  
  
I certainly didn't want to feel any pain---most definitely not---and upended the mug, drinking the entire bitter draught in a minute's time. Oh, it was horrible. It was obviously an herb of some sort, but I could not place the taste and couldn't quite recall ever having had anything like it.   
  
"Good . . ." Leaning over me, he tilted my head back as far as it would go and opened my mouth until I thought my lips would surely split. And how he could see what he was doing in there with only a small lamp above us, I had no idea.   
  
"Shouldn't you be giving that concoction some time to work, sir?" Sam asked. "He's full awake and alert!"  
  
"It'll hit him quick and hard. Don't fret."  
  
I *was* beginning to feel a bit lightheaded. I couldn't see what Vinarion was doing but could hear the clink of metal and tried not to shift too much in the chair. Then suddenly, a terrible pain ripped through my head as he jabbed something wickedly pointed right into the most painful spot in my mouth and pressed hard. I cried out, nearly biting the man.   
  
"Hush! You got to sit still!"  
  
"Leave him alone!" I heard Sam retort, and mercifully the instrument was removed . . . but I could taste salty liquid inside my mouth. Then Sam was at my side, arms about my shoulders. "We're leaving, Mr. Frodo---I'm sorry, but I'll not sit here quiet while he tortures you."  
  
I had my wits about me somewhat and nodded, gasping as I raised a hand to favor the sore jaw. Perhaps I had been wrong---having the tooth worked on was far worse than simply enduring the pain. My entire lower face was now throbbing and I felt a wave of nausea sweep through me.   
  
Vinarion stood before us, hands on his hips. "You can't leave---that tooth's corrupted. It's got to come out, pain or no."  
  
"We'll come back if need be," Sam lied, helping me off the chair.   
  
"Well, you owe me for that dose of tonic he drank---that's valuable brew," the man asserted.   
  
Shivering a bit, I reached into my pack and managed to dig out a few coins.   
  
"That should take care of it," I whispered, and we left.   
  
To be continued 


	3. Brews and Extractions

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 3/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Author's Note: While the Frodo in my head is always movie-verse Frodo, I am going to point out that here, I'm really following movie-verse by making Frodo 33 when he leaves on the Quest, just as it appears in the movie. It will become clear as you read why I'm doing this. :)   
  
WARNING: There is some *very* graphic medical detail in this next section. If it squicks you, please don't continue.   
  
*****  
  
The door had just closed behind us when a surge of vertigo hit me full force and I reeled, pulling on Sam for support. "Sam . . . I'm sorry . . ." I trailed off, feeling as if I'd just imbibed a bottle of Old Winyards all by myself. The pain, thankfully, was receding a bit, to be replaced by a severe lightheadedness. "Samwise Gamgee, faithful friend and companion . . ."  
  
"Mr. Frodo, I think you're off your head."  
  
"Ah . . . maybe so," I drawled. "Sam . . . you're a dear friend for putting up with me. I hope you and Rosie have hundreds of children just to perpetuate your goodness."  
  
"Frodo!" Sam just caught me as I sagged, and Vinarion, inside, must have heard our voices, for the door flew open and he came to my side and gripped my face, his hair flying about his head.   
  
"The brew's hit him, as I told you. He won't be going anywhere under his own power for a while---best to just let me do what I have to do and take care of that tooth." He felt my forehead and I winced---his touch was not light, as Lord Elrond's or Aragorn's or even Gandalf's. "See, he's warm---I don't know what's normal for you halflings, but I'll warrant he's too warm. Feel him."  
  
Sam did, frowning as he touched my brow and looked up at the tall man, who spoke.  
  
"See? That tooth *must* come out right now---or he'll die from the corruption of it."  
  
Through the haze of my vision I could see Sam stiffen. "Die? Just like my Aunt Willow. . ."  
  
"You had best get him back inside. It shouldn't take more than, oh, a half-hour or so . . . and he won't feel much, seeing as how that drink's affected him so." As if to prove his point, he slapped my good cheek none too gently before rising and holding the door open.  
  
"He's right, Sam," I murmured, "let's go back in so he can yank this thing out . . . then I want to take it and show it to everyone at the next feast, all right? Or perhaps . . ." I could barely finish, and Sam, apparently alarmed, urged me to put one foot in front of the other as we walked back into that grimy, dark building. But I found that this time, my brain was just too fuzzy to even care when Vinarion hefted me into that cold chair. I could feel myself slumping bonelessly as he leaned my head back and pulled my mouth open.   
  
"Shhhhaaaaaammm?"   
  
"I'm here, Mr. Frodo," he said, and I felt him take my hand as Vinarion adjusted a lamp to better torture me.   
  
"Yep. Looks pretty bad already---that tooth's contaminating his blood. You know . . . a good bleeding wouldn't hurt him, either."  
  
"No," I heard Sam say firmly, "there'll be no bleeding. Do only what you have to for Mr. Frodo's tooth and we'll be out of your way."  
  
I'm not altogether certain how many minutes I sat there . . . my mind was reeling, and all I was really aware of was pain and Vinarion's muttering. I could smell his breath---not pleasant---and hear the clink of tools as he scraped and cut and cracked and poked about. In addition I could taste blood, and I knew that without the brew I would certainly not have been able to stand the pain.   
  
Vinarion's voice came through my senses. "Hold him down," he advised Sam gruffly, and suddenly I felt intense pressure. It increased to a dull agony and then to a sharp unendurable torture. I tried to cry out, but could make only a keening noise, and then I knew no more.   
  
  
***  
  
"Mr. Frodo? That's it, master, wake up now . . . it's over with, and time to let me get you back t' the house and in bed."  
  
Ah . . . I was still sitting in the hard chair, my back aching---but my jaw aching worse. "S--Sam?" The word was the faintest whisper as my entire mouth felt swollen. And the lightheadedness was still with me . . . a terrible dizziness that seemed to pull the ground out from under me and send me spiraling.   
  
"Lean on your Sam." Carefully Sam eased me up and off the chair, where I stood with wobbly legs. "Vinarion's just left, Mr. Frodo---he let us stay here a bit until you was alert enough to come around. I was fixing to carry you out, sir, but . . ."  
  
I shook my head, aware that speaking was not only painful, it was difficult---to get my brain to think and from some rag the man had stuffed in the back of my mouth to staunch any bleeding. Sam reached up and dabbed at my face with a cloth and I realized I had saliva dripping down my chin.  
  
"No, I . . . I can make it," I slurred as Sam put an arm about my shoulders. Walking was not too difficult, and we had made some headway, rapidly approaching the house we all shared, save Aragorn, when I had to pause.  
  
"Sam, I have to . . . to rest . . . I don' care if Orcs are after us."  
  
"There are no Orcs here, master."  
  
"And I don' . . . care if there are." Each step was becoming a bit more difficult, but I fussed when Sam tried to pick me up and shooed him away. Sam was not in the best of shape himself and besides, I fancied, in my woozy state, that I had more dignity than to be carried, drooling, through the streets of Minas Tirith.   
  
"We're nearly home, Mr. Frodo," Sam assured. "Just one foot in front of the other."  
  
By the time we reached the house my legs felt like rubber. Sam began calling for someone, and the door flew open to reveal Merry. "Gracious!" he said, his eyes wide as he put an arm about me for support. "Frodo, you look positively green."  
  
"I don' . . . I don' think I feel . . ."  
  
The two were about to pick me up when Legolas appeared, his eyes wide as he knelt and gently cupped my face between his hands. His hands felt nice---soothing and cool. "What happened? He is feverish and his face appears to be swollen."   
  
"He had a tooth pulled---the tooth man gave him some sort o' drink for it and he's a bit out of his head, sir."   
  
The elf nodded at Sam, his face grim, and then looked at me again, smiling. "Come, Frodo, allow me to help you to your room."  
  
This time I did not protest as Legolas carefully swung me off the ground and lifted me into his arms.   
  
To be continued 


	4. Echoes and Tooks

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 4/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Author's Note: While the Frodo in my head is always movie-verse Frodo, I am going to point out that here, I'm really following movie-verse by making Frodo 33 when he leaves on the Quest, just as it appears in the movie. It will become clear as you read why I'm doing this. :)   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this story. If it squicks you, please don't continue.  
  
*****  
  
I clung to Legolas's neck as he fairly sped down the hall, calling for Gimli. As if the swollen state of my cotton-packed face was not bad enough, I realized I was drooling on the elf's tunic and a large wet stain was spreading over it. Oh dear---and his nice tunic, too---not the casual one he wore when walking on snow or using his bow.   
  
Even as I thought it, I realized I'd made a mental rhyme and could not suppress a giggle, causing the others to look at me rather strangely. But my attempt at my own brand of humor was cut short, as moving any of the muscles of my face led to intense pain.   
  
Next to us Sam chattered along, beside himself with worry. In short order Gimli appeared, his voice gruff as usual.   
  
"Master hobbit, what happened?"  
  
"Ugggghhhh . . ."   
  
"He had a tooth removed and is quite feverish," Legolas quickly put in. "Gimli, if you would go and fetch Lord Elrond if you can . . . if you cannot find him, bring Aragorn or at the least a healer. Aragorn should be in council, but I fear Elrond may be gone a day's ride out from the city at this time."  
  
"I'm going to go find that toothdrawer and show him what a dwarf's axe is made of!"  
  
"No, Master Gimli, Frodo needs you now."  
  
There was a brief exchange of words before I felt myself again moving rapidly down the hall. The smells of the house were comforting---sweet spices and candle wax, and oh, I was looking forward to the feel of soft sheets against my skin. My bedroom was rather nice, with a large window overlooking a fragrant garden, a hearth, several overstuffed chairs, a washstand and wardrobe, and my own water-closet. It had been furnished for comfort---the bed was huge and soft and plush rugs adorned the floors.   
  
"We're here, Frodo . . . we shall have you in bed in a moment."  
  
But something else needed taking care of first. The huge mug of brew was making its presence rather forcefully known and I had to relieve myself urgently.  
  
"Need the . . . wat-closet . . . quick . . ."  
  
Legolas moved to the water-closet with a speed and agility I fancied none of us had seen displayed since our last run-in with Orcs. Once inside he stood me on my feet before the privy seat, leaning me against his strong legs. Even in my groggy state I felt my face turn red---having Sam or one of my cousins or even Aragorn help me with such a matter was one thing, but Legolas seemed so . . . dignified. I knew elves had to relieve themselves---one could hardly journey with one for months without knowing that---but still, I felt rather sorry for him having to tend to one half-cracked hobbit and thought to tell him so.  
  
"I c'n do this myself . . ."  
  
"Frodo, I am not leaving you alone."  
  
"No, no," I insisted. Probably because he wanted to prove me incorrect, Legolas let go of me slightly, and I did indeed manage to keep my feet for a moment before swaying forward. His arms caught me as I found myself grasping the privy seat with white knuckles and staring down into the deep, dark hole.   
  
"I c'n do this," I repeated. That's when I realized the hole echoed back. Yes, this was terribly amusing and I grinned, wincing. "Echo . . . there's'n echo, Leg'las . . . hear it? Huu---lll----ooo . . ."  
  
I was about to yell into the hole again when I felt a firm hand on my brow as Legolas pried my fingers loose. "Come, Frodo, you needed to relieve yourself, remember? Come now, let me help you so we can get you into bed."  
  
I nodded. Yes, that's what I had come here for. To use the privy. Everything seemed to be blurring a bit. As Legolas finished unfastening my breeches my knees started to buckle and he leaned me back against him, supporting me so I could stay upright. I felt so weak . . . but the elf, bless his soul, did not seem one whit embarrassed as he helped me to complete my business before carrying me back out and settling me in the bed.  
  
The soft mattress and pillows felt rather heavenly, but getting comfortable with my face aching so was difficult and I felt a bit nauseated now as well. Legolas smoothed my hair back, his eyes kind. "We shall take care of you until Gimli brings Lord Elrond or Aragorn back, for although I will do what I can, I do not have their level of healing skill."  
  
"No, no---don' disturb them---"  
  
"Sssshhh . . . they would wish to be disturbed for you."   
  
I blinked and noticed again the large stain on the elf's shoulder and cringed. "I'm . . . s-sorry," I slurred, covering my mouth and feeling miserably ashamed. He looked down at his tunic and smiled.   
  
"Do not worry about it---I have had far worse on my clothing that this!"  
  
With that he and the others began to undress me, and I tried to focus on Merry's face swimming over the bed as he pulled my breeches off. He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. "Well, cousin, I remember a tooth I had treated as a tweenager in the Shire. It wasn't very pleasant, and I can only imagine how you must be feeling."  
  
"Mmmm-hmmm . . . stoo-phid."  
  
They eased a fresh nightshirt over my head; Sam and Merry on either side of the bed as they lifted my bottom and pulled the gown down before pulling the sheets back up. I shivered and Legolas placed a cool compress on my brow before tucking another warm quilt about me.   
  
"S--Sam?"  
  
"Yes, Mr. Frodo? What can your Sam get for you?"   
  
"Where . . . where am I?"  
  
"You're in your bedroom, sir," Sam said. "In Minas Tirith." He looked over at Legolas. "I told you he was off his head."  
  
"The drink that man gave him must have been quite strong . . . far too strong for a hobbit, especially. Sam, put some fresh, room temperature water . . ."  
  
I tried to follow the conversation but gave up. They were gathering various things---I had no idea what, but I was certain they were all unpleasant and likely painful, and made of metal like that Vin---Vinarion's tools. Well, they would NOT find me cooperative. Scowling, I turned over and curled up, my back to them all.   
  
As my cheek hit the pillow I couldn't suppress a moan---and also remembered that my mouth was full of something soft, and an unpleasant metallic taste led me to believe it had bled a fair bit as well. Was it cloth packed on my gum? Poking about in there with my finger, I discovered that's what it was, indeed. It tasted terrible and I decided it must go even as I opened my mouth wide and reached in----  
  
"Frodo, do not touch it." Legolas's voice, and a large hand grabbed my smaller one. "Do not touch it, for it might start bleeding more. Leave it there just a bit longer until a we can carefully remove it, all right?"  
  
"No."  
  
Legolas sat down on the bed, gently clasping my hands in one of his. "Ssssssh. You are not thinking clearly---it is the drink the toothdrawer gave you. Just try to rest. You must be rather thirsty, but I hesitate to give you anything until we know the extent of the damage to your mouth." As if to soothe me, he lightly stroked my unswollen cheek with one finger. His touch *did* relax me, I must admit, and I felt my eyelids growing heavier.   
  
That is, until the door opened and someone practically jumped in my face.   
  
"Why, Frodo Baggins, you look like a squirrel hoarding nuts!"   
  
"Pippin!" Sam's voice.   
  
"Well, he *does.* Look at his cheek there---all puffed out like that."  
  
"Peregrin Took, out with you if you ain't going to behave . . . an' I don't care if you are taller than me now!"  
  
"Sam---owwwww, letgoofmyear . . . all right, all right . . . I'll behave."  
  
A face leaned close to me again and I could see it was indeed a hobbit. Was it Pip? Yes, I think it was, and looking rather contrite, too. He sat on the edge of the bed and I winced, for the motion caused the dizziness to overwhelm me and my stomach to do somersaults.   
  
"I'm sorry, Frodo . . . I won't say that about your face again---"  
  
I nodded and moaned, feeling the brew's imminent uphill climb. "Pip . . . better . . . move . . . I . . . I'm . . ."  
  
"---even if you *do* look like a squirrel. Uh, a greenish squirrel---Frodo?"  
  
I had done my best warn him, but too late. Unable to help myself, I was vomiting onto his lap an instant later.  
  
To be continued 


	5. Orcs Abounding

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 5/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this story. If it squicks you, please don't continue.  
  
*****  
  
Poor Pip.   
  
I could not cease the retching, and in a matter of seconds an awful lot of hideous-smelling liquid plus a small amount of that morning's breakfast unceremoniously splattered onto my cousin---and all over the silver and sable Tower livery he happened to be wearing. As if that weren't enough, the bloody wad of cloth that had been packed over my now-missing tooth plopped right out onto his leg, causing him to jump backward in surprise. I don't suppose he had expected that, the poor dear.   
  
"Frodo . . . uh-oh . . . Sam, Legolas!" Pippin's eyes went wide as he quickly grabbed a basin to set under my chin---though it appeared to be too late---and allowed the others to move in with soothing hands on my face and shoulders, supporting me as the heaving sent waves of pain through my jaw.   
  
"Poor Pip," I managed to choke in between bouts, knowing I should feel terribly guilty but, quite frankly, feeling very little except quite lightheaded and sick. "S---shorry . . . your fancy clothes . . ."  
  
"Awww, Frodo, don't worry about it . . . it will clean up. I know you couldn't help it." As if to reinforce his words, Pippin sat down on the end of the bed and rubbed my sheet-covered feet as the vomiting finally stopped, and I closed my eyes gratefully as Legolas settled me back down on my side after swiping my feather pillow away.   
  
"Your pillow and sheets are soiled, Frodo," he said as he gently dabbed at my face with a cool damp towel. "Merry is bringing new ones as we speak."  
  
I nodded, noticing out of the corner of my eye that two Pippins were seated at the end of my bed, and both of them were rather humorously trying to dry themselves off. Their black hauberk, unfortunately, was made of tiny links that resembled fish scales. And if I had learned one thing from my travels, it was that throwing up on a coat of mail was to be avoided.   
  
"You look like a . . . a w-wet fish, Pip. . . "  
  
"And you *still* look like a squirrel, cousin."   
  
"Ssssh, do not talk, Frodo," Legolas chided, sitting on the edge of the bed as he brushed my bangs back, continuing to wipe my face and neck. Indeed, I felt rather sticky all over . . . as if I was sweating profusely. "Your mouth is bleeding a bit . . . Sam?"  
  
Only then did I become aware that something slightly metallic tasting was coating my tongue. Blood. Unable to resist, I stuck my finger in my mouth to feel the raw spot where my tooth had been hours earlier. It smarted, and was quite more than a "spot"---it was a hole. Well, I rather suppose it was more like a gash, as if someone had sawed through my gums---and it was rather alarming and made my stomach recoil. Perhaps feeling it was not the wisest thing to have done.   
  
"There, Mr. Frodo, don't go worrying that." Suddenly Sam leaned over me as well, pulling my hand away and holding a small cup of water and a clean basin below my lips. "Just rinse your tongue, and then go ahead and spit, real, real gentle, sir. You don't want to use too much force and start it to bleeding worse."  
  
I obeyed, wondering briefly if elves ever had tooth difficulties---certainly they did not suffer from diseases of the teeth, but did their teeth ever come in crooked? Apparently not---unlike some hobbits.' Why, I had had a childhood friend in Brandy Hall who looked exactly like a little coney . . .   
  
"Frodo." Gently, Legolas brought me back to the present as he cupped my chin in one slender hand. "Frodo, I am just going to put this wet cloth over the area to absorb the flow." Gently he eased my mouth open, peering down at me with his eyebrows drawn together. I must say I was tiring of that look on others' faces . . . was I in that bad of shape? As I stared at him, making a low "ahhhh" sound, the world began to spin about me again and the dizziness became overwhelming . . .  
  
Who was leaning over me? A moment ago it had been Legolas . . . now it looked suspiciously like . . . like an Orc---another Orc intent on pouring a burning drink down my throat . . . and next would surely come the whipping . . . but no, this was Legolas, right? I wasn't altogether certain---the image faded in and out, from Orc to Legolas and back again . . .   
  
Clearly, there was only one thing to do in this situation: Hide and hope the offending monster, whoever it was, would go away.   
  
Quickly pulling back from the startled elf, I yanked the sheet over my head, caring not that it smelled sour from my earlier bout of nausea. Now, if I could just turn over . . . yes, that was it . . . if I could flip onto my stomach and huddle into a ball and sink into the mattress, perhaps the horrible images and the pain and the fever dreams and burning in my mouth and throat would disappear. If only I could remain under here.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, let go of them sheets, please . . . they're all mussed up now . . . you can't very well lie about like that. We'll get 'em and you cleaned up in short order."  
  
"His fever is rising, Sam . . . we need to . . ."  
  
I felt someone gently tugging at my top sheet, but of course I couldn't allow them to find me and only gripped the covers more tightly. I couldn't bear it again---not the whipping and the vile drink . . . "No Orc draught, please . . . no m-more burning . . . it hurts so . . ."  
  
A voice from outside, sounding remarkably hobbit-like instead of Orcish. "He thinks he's back in that dreadful place. He don't understand it's over now, being out of his senses as he is."  
  
" 'M not out of my s--senses . . ." I muttered. How dare anyone think such a thing? "Go . . . go away and leave me alone."  
  
"We cannot do that, Frodo. Now let us help you." Soon hands stronger than mine were indeed taking my sheet away, the cold air hitting my upturned nightshirt-clad bottom. "Come now, Frodo . . ." The gentle hand rubbed my back, imparting a brief rush of warmth into my bones. It felt rather nice, but then I remembered---the vilest of creatures often played with their prey just before the end. The hand suddenly stopped rubbing, however, and I felt the bed move and heard voices far away.   
  
". . . am glad you are finally here . . . he seems to be worsening . . ."  
  
". . . only wish I had known of this earlier, before . . ."  
  
". . . the brew he was given has made him quite ill . . ."  
  
I grew aware, then, that my strange position was causing my head to ache miserably . . . and the sheet under my face was becoming faintly streaked with blood. Oh dear---now footsteps were approaching. I had to move quickly.   
  
Gathering all the strength I had---which wasn't much, as it was only a matter of time before my stomach rebelled again---I scrambled off the bed and hit the floor rather hard. But there was no time to ponder the pain, and I did the only thing I really could---crawled under the bed, ignoring the cries of "Frodo!" and "Mr. Frodo!" from the other side. Luckily the bed was very low, and any creature but a thin hobbit or a small human child would not have been able to seek refuge under it.   
  
Which was fortunate, as it meant the vile things outside wouldn't be able to reach me quite so easily.   
  
To be continued 


	6. Wails and General Chaos

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 6/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Author's Note: I must offer sincere thanks to Frodo Baggins of Bag End (Febobe) for her input and extreme knowledge of proper foods to feed the sick. All foods contained herein and feeding schedules are due to her sharing of this knowledge with me. My own sick-hobbit dietician.   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this story. If it squicks you, please don't continue.  
  
*****  
  
In my own little dark corner of the world, I ignored the voices from without.   
  
"Frodo Baggins, be a sensible hobbit now and come out from under there!"  
  
"Quiet, please, Pippin . . . we do not want to frighten him any more than he already is."  
  
Were they talking about me? I had a feeling they were indeed . . . and planning a method of capturing me so they could play their evil games of poking metal instruments into my mouth or tearing at my flesh with leather whips or engaging in other assorted tortures. I had to stay away from them---I was already bleeding and in pain, and if they got me, they would hurt me even more badly, I was certain. In fact, I'd probably not survive it.   
  
On the other hand, I had to admit it was rather dark under here and not all that pleasant. I lay on my stomach, perfectly flat, with no room to raise my head more than an inch or turn it to the other side. Of course, I had crawled under this bed with my sore cheek pressed downward---and there it had to stay, smarting more than ever. As if that weren't enough, I could feel the cold from the bare wooden floor seeping through my thin damp nightshirt into the very flesh of my chest and stomach, which set me to shivering.  
  
Of course, that wasn't all. I had a whole list of complaints. My head was aching, I felt as if I was alternating between iciness and being set on fire, and my stomach was on the verge of rebelling at any time. I only hoped it would wait until I got out of here---although I wasn't certain how I was going to go about doing that.  
  
Suddenly three pairs of eyes were staring at me from outside. I couldn't quite make out their color, but they were beady and Orcish. And then one of them spoke.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, won't you come out here to your Sam? You're sick, sir . . . real sick and you need care."  
  
"N-noh."  
  
"It's no use, Sam. We shall have to pry him out. I fear hurting him if he fights us, but we cannot leave him under there long in his weakened state. He needs medicine and nourishment and warmth."  
  
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Strider, but my arms can't reach him."  
  
"I can reach him, as can Legolas. We'll have to get one on each side of the bed. Legolas?"  
  
I heard the soft patter of footsteps and knew they were attempting to surround me. I inched up closer to the headboard, to gain some sort of hold, and that was when I spied it.   
  
It was initially a smallish thing, perhaps the size of a hobbit-child's teacup, scuttling across the floor with nary a thought for me. But as it neared, I could see its brownish form clearly---all eight fuzzy legs and small pincers atop a bloated little body.   
  
Yes, it was looking at me.   
  
As I stared back it grew larger . . . larger beyond the bounds of the bed, its---her---bloated, mottled belly expanding and coming closer . . . closer to suffocate me, to bind me up, to fill me with her dread poison . . . and I suddenly felt her thickened hide again; saw the wicked, evil claws and the malice in her revolving eyes as she intended to devour me. The pain resurfaced in my neck and the stench of her filled my nostrils and I gagged.   
  
And gagged and gagged in between sobs, bringing up a rush of foul liquid that pooled all over the floor about my head and ran under my chest, soaking my gown and hair and even my hands. I was truly a miserable wretch, lying about in my own vomit and about to have my life-blood sucked out by this monster---please, please, no . . .   
  
I wasn't even aware of issuing the wail, but apparently the Orcs were quite startled, for I could hear them murmuring as their words blended together in one long stream. A grasping hand just missed my leg as I kicked and moved away, wishing I could get up and run instead of being stuck here. Nevertheless, I managed to slide a bit to the other side, only to be met with more fingers.  
  
This claw was strong and had a good hold on my ankle---it was either an Orc or HER coming for me, I don't know which,and I scrabbled for a purchase as I was slowly dragged out into the light. But the floor was smooth and wet from the foulness I'd thrown up earlier, and I could gain no stronghold.   
  
Suddenly I was pulled nearly completely out of my shelter and the thing turned me over despite my thrashings. The monster was much stronger than I, but luckily, the edge of the bed was just above and behind me and I latched onto it with all my might, kicking, even though my nightshirt was getting into a terrible tangle. A foot caught the biggest creature in the chest, causing it to grunt.   
  
"Legolas, grab his hands," it said as it pinned my ankles---quite effectively, I might say---to the ground. Then the hideous thing let go of one ankle and leaned over me, touching my forehead and neck and the side of my face. "He's burning up with fever."  
  
Letting go of me was a mistake, however. I could kick hard, and hobbits had very tough feet, and so I rallied my strength and aimed, as it were, with my free leg for a very sensitive area I knew would cause intense pain in any male creature, Orc or no. I felt slightly bad about it, but I had to get out of here. SHE was coming for me.  
  
It worked. The thing let go of me immediately, doubling over with a groan. I arched my back, trying to buck free of the other Orc's hands, but it was extremely strong and looking at its injured neighbor with some alarm.   
  
"Aragorn, are you all right?"  
  
"Will be . . . in a moment."  
  
"Be careful of his feet. He is stronger than he appears, it seems."  
  
"Yes, Legolas . . . thank you for pointing that out to me now."   
  
"Is there something we might give him to calm him down?"  
  
"Not with that infernal tonic in his system. We have no idea what was in it, and to give him anything might be to risk an overdose."  
  
Tonic. I remembered some tonic. A horrible, burning drink . . . indeed, even as I thought of it, I stilled, feeling my guts twist again with a dizzying nausea. I groaned, and a moment later, was violently sick.   
  
"Turn him over, quickly!"  
  
Hands turned me onto my side, holding me gently and wiping my face with a cool cloth as I vomited. When at last the torture stopped, I had no will to fight left---just a bitter, acrid taste in my mouth and a throbbing in my jaw that caused me to moan unwittingly. And I was a mess, I knew---soaking wet all over from the retching. If they killed me or the horrible spider sucked me dry, so be it.   
  
"Easy, Frodo, we shall have you in bed soon enough."  
  
"No . . . le' me go . . . pleash . . . Shelob . . . "  
  
"There now, Mr. Frodo, you're safe now. Ain't nothing can get to you."  
  
The Orc I had injured scooted close---keeping a wary eye on my feet, it seemed---and in a surprisingly gentle manner raised my shoulders and knees and lifted me into its lap. Even though I cringed at the touch, it did feel comfortable when the creature wrapped a blanket about me and pulled me against its warm chest. Too tired to resist, I sagged against the soft velvet it wore, closing my eyes. I could hear its voice speaking just above my ear, though the words made little sense.   
  
"Hush now, Frodo, you're all right, hush . . . Legolas, if you would procure more towels and tepid water, so that we can get his fever down and clean him up. Merry, if you would finish getting his bed ready, and Sam, please fetch your master some foods I asked the cook to prepare when I arrived. Nothing too hot or too cold, or that will upset his stomach more: strained beef barley soup, apple jelly, and some ginger tea. As soon as we get him settled, I've stronger medicines to help ease the pain, and if we can find some ice, that would be most beneficial as well."  
  
Legolas . . . had he said Legolas? Legolas was a friend. And Sam? Sam was a dear friend. But they weren't here. Just me. All alone with the goblins in this dreadful place.   
  
To be continued 


	7. Back in the Dark Lands

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 7/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this story. If it squicks you, please don't continue.  
  
As usual, I must give HUGE thanks and hugs and hobbit cuddles to Frodo Baggins of Bag End, the utmost in hobbit dieticians, who is my "food consultant" for this story.   
  
*****  
  
I opened blurry eyes and gazed up at the Orc brute holding me. It looked familiar for some odd reason, and I had to admit, I almost felt safe, although I'm not certain why. At any rate, its body was warmer than the floor, and I nestled against the large chest gratefully.  
  
In response it unwrapped my sticky hands from the blanket and wiped them with a warm wet towel. I tried to protest, but only something unintelligible issued from my mouth, to my dismay. And so the creature continued, rubbing my soiled and sweat-soaked hair as well and wrapping the blanket around my head. If I'd been in anyone's presence but an Orc, I would have been severely embarrassed by my state. But, among goblins, hygiene is certainly not a matter of importance, and I'm quite sure I was still much cleaner than those around me.  
  
It would be an understatement to say that I couldn't really fathom why the creature was giving me such attention. Most likely, I figured, it was for the same reasons the Shire-folk bathed pigs in fresh buttermilk to make them appear fresh and healthy before selling them at market. The Orcs were prepping me, apparently, for something most unpleasant.   
  
Now the goblin holding me---a species of Uruk-hai, I believe---dabbed at my drooling mouth, gently parting my lips with a towel-covered claw. The touch was light, but my entire jaw was now a mass of pain, and I couldn't suppress a gasp.   
  
"I'm sorry, Frodo . . . I know it must hurt. I just want to take a look in your mouth, all right? Can you understand me?" The Orc's eyes seemed pained, as if it felt pity for me . . . I wonder why? Especially when I had kicked it earlier. But open my mouth so that it could pour more vile drinks down my throat? I think not. Instead, I clamped my lips tightly shut, causing it to continue its coaxing.   
  
But I was not to be swayed, and a moment later it rose, cradling me, and placed me on a soft, cool surface; padded, I think, with towels. It was comfortable and I relaxed---that is, until a moment later, when the Uruk-hai Orc and a smaller wimpy one removed my soaked nightshirt, leaving me embarrassingly naked. I knew what was coming next . . . the whipping.   
  
I recalled it all too vividly from before---the fiery pain with each mad lash upon my flesh---and I had to get away from them. I began to thrash, but my strength was waning, and the two Orcs in the room easily held me down upon the bed, speaking the name "Frodo" over and over again in soft voices. Frodo. Was that me?  
  
They wanted it, too. Did I still have it? Panicking, I reached for my throat---it was gone! Oh merciful stars, it wasn't there . . . had I lost it? The fate of Middle-earth was in my hands, and I'd failed---I'd lost the one thing that could save us. That could save me . . . my precious. Yes, I'd lost the precious. There was nothing more for it---utter despair washed over me and I turned over and curled up, clamping my hands over my ears even as I screamed in terror.   
  
"Frodo, come back to us! You're safe, you're safe, it's over." Arms reached for me, holding my shoulders and smoothing hair back from my ears.   
  
"You're in Minas Tirith, Frodo dear, and we're taking care of you. You're all right."  
  
I was safe? No, I'd never be safe again, but I was feeling too sick to fight anymore and quieted. I could feel the goblins stretching a light covering over me, for which I was grateful, and rubbing my back with tender hands. Above me, they were speaking softly.   
  
"What's wrong with him, Strider? Surely a pulled tooth wouldn't have caused this reaction."  
  
"I am not Elrond, Merry, but I suspect the tooth was probably corrupted before he had it extracted. It certainly is now, judging by the swelling of his face and neck. It is making him ill, but the concoction he drank---a pox on that man's hide, and if I ever find him he shall certainly regret it---is probably largely responsible for his delirium. Ah, here are Sam and Legolas."  
  
There was a small flurry of activity about the room, and then the smaller Orc with the scar over its forehead uncurled my arms and raised my head slightly as it brought a cup to my lips.   
  
"No." Shaking my head, I pushed the arm away, nearly sending the cup flying.   
  
"It's a sweet raspberry drink, cousin. Aren't you thirsty?" Smiling a bit, the Orc upturned the cup and took a large swig of whatever was in it, licking his lips as I cringed, watching. "See? Very tasty---I guarantee you'll like it."  
  
Well, perhaps it *was* indeed something less vile than the burning drink. My throat was parched, and I had the unpleasant taste of blood and vomit in my mouth, as well. This time I didn't resist as the goblin put the cup back to my lips, dribbling a trickle of liquid between them.   
  
"Careful now," it hissed. "Not too fast."  
  
Oh, the concoction was amazing . . . slightly cool as it went down my throat, sweet and yet tart and refreshing, and I drank thirstily, albeit slowly, until the cup was drained. Why did they have such a drink, here, in Cirith Ungol? I didn't understand, but was too fuzzy-brained to even attempt to wonder. I felt so hot. And cold. Hot and cold at the same time.   
  
"You can have as much as you like, Frodo, there's plenty. And we've nice simple foods for you as well. But in a bit---first Strider says we need to get your fever down."  
  
To my chagrin, I was soon uncovered again, as this Orc and the brutish Uruk-hai with facial hair untwisted my limbs and rolled me over onto my back, covering me with towels. It was then that I became aware of something terrible---I needed a water-closet, and urgently. Maybe these Orcs would understand, if I tried to voice it to them. At the very least, they would escort me into the woods, I hoped.   
  
I squirmed a bit, gesturing, and finally managed to say, "Need to . . . please . . . have to . . ."  
  
Understanding dawned on their Orcish faces, and the small one retrieved a shallow chamber pot while the big Uruk-hai turned me onto my side, lifting my towels and placing the pot in position. It rubbed my shoulder gently. "Here, Frodo . . . go ahead. If you need any help, we shall be right here."  
  
It and the other Orc busied themselves for a moment, glancing at me often to make sure I wouldn't run, I'm sure, while I went, finally sighing in relief. The Uruk-hai took the pot away and they turned me over, wiping me down with pleasantly scented wet towels. They did this methodically, removing all traces of the foul liquid I'd thrown up earlier. It felt very cool and refreshing, but, to my puzzlement, they also sponged down areas that were not even *dirty.* Here, now---my knee was certainly not soiled, and neither were my buttocks, and yet they were now rolling me over and wiping those, too.   
  
"Don' do that," I managed, drawing on all my strength to open my eyes and glare at them.   
  
"Ssshhh, Frodo, we are just trying to keep you comfortable."  
  
"He does feel a bit cooler, Strider."  
  
"A bit. I think we should stop for now, before he gets chilled. We shall probably have to sponge him down again within the hour."  
  
Thank goodness, they were finally going to leave me alone. Well, what did it matter, I was already alone. Everyone I cared about was missing. Gone were the companions I'd had just a few months ago. Bilbo wasn't around. And where was Gandalf? Why wasn't he here by my bedside? Why wasn't anyone?   
  
I groaned, feeling the tears spring to my eyes even as my stomach churned like a summer storm. Gagging and retching, I vomited more evil-smelling greenish liquid into a basin miraculously placed just under my chin. Large cool hands held my face, supporting my forehead as the attack continued. With each convulsion of my throat, it felt as if knife points were being driven into my gums, and when it was over all I could do was sink back on the pillow and close my eyes.   
  
"There now, Mr. Frodo, it's all right. You'll be all right, sir. Your Sam will see to that." This new creature wiped my face and dressed me in a nightshirt before tucking the blankets about me warmly and putting a cool compress on my forehead. I squirmed a bit, trying to get comfortable and snuggling down into the soft covers.   
  
"Here now, just a few sips, master." The Orc raised my head and held a cup to my lips. I had hoped for the blessedly sweet cool drink, but this one was more pungent, and warm. It was still quite good, and I knew, in some part of my mind, that I'd been given this tea to drink many times before, even during my early childhood.   
  
Suddenly the bed moved as the big bearded Orc sat down next to me, gently clasping my chin in one claw as it smoothed my bangs back with the other. "Frodo, if you can understand me, I am going to put something on your gums to ease the pain. It shouldn't taste too unpleasant. Will you allow me? Without biting my finger?"   
  
Well, of *course* I would bite its finger. Just as soon as I had the strength to do so. But now, I felt so very tired . . . and perhaps it really *could* take some of the pain away. Anything was better than this constant throbbing. Slowly, I nodded, and the Uruk-hai ever-so-gently tilted my head back and opened my mouth, poking one finger in to move my cheek aside as it leaned over me, its eyebrows drawn together. Keeping my mouth agape hurt, and I whimpered, but my chin was held fast.  
  
The other large Orc came to my bedside, holding a candle close to us and putting a cool hand on my forehead. "How does the area look, Aragorn?"  
  
"Not good. Very swollen and possibly abscessed. The toothdrawer did quite a butchering on this little one's mouth, Legolas." A sigh. "Vinarion shall rue the day he treated this dear one thus. For now, I will put a pinch of catnip powder on the gum, to give Frodo some temporary relief, and place a poultice over the area to draw out the infection. Once that brew is out of his system, we can go from there."  
  
"Catnip powder?"  
  
"The women of Gondor have used it on teething infants for years, and I have used it successfully on the battlefield. I am not a toothdrawer, but I have seen my fair share of teeth knocked out by fist or club or sword hilt over many years."  
  
"As have I. Even among elves, that is a serious injury. Will this powder then take care of the tooth corruption? Or must you or the Lord Elrond take further measures?"  
  
"I will tell you in a moment, Legolas, while Sam is feeding Frodo. Not just now." The two exchanged a meaningful glance and the slender Orc nodded grimly and bit its lip, quieting. I imagined they didn't want to discuss upcoming tortures in front of me. How polite of them . . . on the whole, this was a far more pleasant race of Orc than I'd been around previously.   
  
"Here we go," the Orc brute murmured. Soon, I tasted something minty and felt a finger carefully rub the very sore gum, just where the tooth---hadn't I had a tooth there once? had been. Oh, it hurt to have that spot touched, but within moments a slight tingle and numbness began, making the throbbing much less noticeable. Then, something akin to wet cloth was gently packed in the back of my mouth---it tasted a bit minty, too. I sighed---any relief at all was blissful, whether or not I was in the company of goblins.  
  
"Now, that should feel better soon, Frodo," the Uruk-hai said, smiling a bit as it released me and rose. "Sam?"   
  
To my dismay, the Sam-Orc returned, bearing a tray laden with dishes. Food---but what kind? "Here now, Mr. Frodo, some nice warm beef barley broth for you and some well-stirred apple jelly, one of your favorites. Real good and nourishing, just what you need."  
  
It and the Uruk-hai propped me up on pillows, and the Sam-Orc perched on the edge of my bed and began swirling a very tiny spoon about in a bowl. "Some jelly first, Mr. Frodo. Not too cold, though, so we don't hurt that tooth. Here you go."  
  
Why was an Orc calling me "master"? Very strange goblins here, indeed. Cautiously I took the spoon in my mouth---the offering was sweet and tangy, and it didn't seem to make my stomach churn too badly. After two bites, I didn't want anymore, but the Sam-Orc was very insistent. In fact, its cheerfulness was beginning to grate on my nerves and I just wanted it gone so I could rest.   
  
"Just a bit more---just a bit."  
  
"No!"   
  
"How 'bout some beef broth, then? I made it up myself---cooks here don't make it rich enough. I would have added some chopped mushrooms, but being your mouth is sore an' all, I didn't figure you could chew anything. Now, a little bite for your Sam. Or I'm liable to sit here all day. Come on, now."   
  
That did it---I didn't think I could take more of the Sam-Orc's incessant chatter. My ears were hurting, and I was feeling very sick, and I had finished about half the broth when I felt myself sagging in the bed, slowly sliding down the pillows. I tried to keep my eyes open, to stay alert and look for a way of escape, but it wasn't possible. I was only dimly aware of the Sam-Orc and the Uruk-hai---who strangely resembled my faithful friends Samwise Gamgee and Aragorn---removing pillows from behind me and easing me down into softness before a heavy sleep descended.   
  
To be continued 


	8. Waking Up, Unfortunately

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 8/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Warning: There is some graphic medical detail in this story. If it squicks you, please don't continue. As usual, I must give HUGE thanks and hugs and hobbit cuddles to Frodo Baggins of Bag End, the utmost in hobbit dieticians, who is my "food consultant" for this story.   
  
****  
  
I lay on my side---funny, I don't recall falling asleep that way, but perhaps I had been moved---as someone rubbed my back and spoke softly in my ear.   
  
"Frodo, wake up."  
  
I ignored the words, for coming to awareness brought with it things best forgotten: sticky eyes, a terribly painful jaw and wet pillow where I had apparently drooled, a throbbing head, and a feeling of dizzying weakness that seemed to originate right from the center of my body and spread outward.   
  
"Now, Frodo, don't fall back to sleep. You must wake up, now."  
  
Another voice chimed in, deeper this time, and with it the came the sweet smell of pipeweed. "Come now, my dear hobbit . . . rise and greet the world."  
  
I grimaced. Oh, how I hated people waking me up cheerfully. Bilbo used to do that when I was but a tween. He would knock on my door and rush in, throwing open the curtains and moving briskly about the room while talking about the day's activities as if the *best* activity wasn't sometimes simply staying in bed and having a lovely sleep.   
  
Of course, Bilbo would invariably take naps during the day or nod off in the early evening when I was feeling quite energetic and had loads of friends swarming in and out of Bag End. We usually woke him up without intending to---most often while scavenging in the kitchen---but Bilbo was always good-natured about it, even rising and fixing us snacks when I knew he was weary.   
  
"Bilbo . . ." I murmured, refusing to open my eyes. How I missed the old hobbit's soothing touch when I was ill.   
  
"I am sorry, my boy, that Bilbo is not here." I felt the bed settle behind me and a large warm hand smoothed my hair back. "You will see him again in Rivendell, but first you must get better, which entails your waking up." A pause. "Aragorn, I believe his face is even more swollen than it was just an hour ago."  
  
"Indeed, Gandalf. I fear the infection has spread despite our attempts to halt it with poultices and herbs. In fact, I assume it was festering long before he even went to the tooth-drawer. We shall have to start the salt-water rinses, which he will not like, and we may not be able to wait for Elrond to . . . take care of it."  
  
Gandalf's voice was close to my ear. "Do you have the tools?"  
  
"Legolas has plans to, er, 'borrow' them from the tooth-drawer who did this damage. They shall be scrubbed and boiled and then, eventually, returned when we have no need of them."  
  
"I see." Suddenly the wizard's strong arms gently lifted my shoulders and rolled me over a bit, cradling me against his soft beard and chest. My head lolled backward and he grasped my chin and carefully opened my mouth. Having my jaw moved wasn't comfortable; but it was necessary, I suppose, and I tried unsuccessfully to suppress any noises.  
  
"Aaaaahhhhhgggggg . . ."   
  
A sigh from Gandalf. "Yes. . . it does not look good, Aragorn, as if I could not already tell from the heat radiating from his body. Ah, his eyes are fluttering. I believe this hobbit is finally waking up."  
  
"Aaaaaahhhhhgggggg . . ."  
  
"I am glad," the other voice said, "for he must take some nourishment, but even more importantly, I want to be sure he can be roused at intervals. I am not altogether certain what was in the brew he drank, although by its smell when he vomited I have my guesses. Hopefully it will have worn off and he'll begin to recognize us once again. Open your eyes, Frodo . . . that's it."  
  
Trying to obey I blinked slowly to realize I was in Gandalf's arms and Aragorn was leaning over me. The wizard was peering into my mouth, bushy brows drawn together, but when he saw my eyes focus he lay me gently back down.   
  
Aragorn was smiling. "Well, look who has rejoined the land of the living. How do you feel, Frodo?"  
  
I shuddered . . . I didn't feel well at all, and the past several hours were a blur. "Cold . . . shhomach hurts."   
  
"You have been delirious, dear Frodo," Gandalf answered, his eyebrows rising. "Apparently you have been mistaking our comrades for Orcs for quite some time now."  
  
I pondered this a for moment, having a slight recollection of crawling under a bed, and looked about the room as I tried to get my fuzzy brain working. "Wha . . . what di' I do?" I asked, worried. Goodness only knows what twisted things I might have imagined or ridiculous things I might have done, if my delirium was anything like the nightmares that sometimes assailed me. "Di' I hurt . . . hurt anyone?"  
  
A chuckle sounded from the corner of the room and I shifted my gaze to see Legolas, smirking as he stood by the hearth pouring something into a large bathtub. Aragorn scowled and glared at the elf, although I'm not certain why. At any rate, Legolas looked properly contrite and looked away, continuing his work. I daresay I eyed the bath and wondered if it was meant for me, as I wasn't sure I wanted to be undressed and washed by others. On the other hand, my skin felt so hot, and a bath surely might be refreshing . . .   
  
"We're just happy you seem to be back to your normal self, Frodo," Aragorn said as he pulled the covers back and unbuttoned my nightshirt, feeling my chest. "We were very worried about you. Now, I've some medicine you must take, and Sam is bringing a tray up."  
  
"No' hungry . . ."  
  
The king shook his head. "None of that, now. You must eat to keep your strength up. And we've only prepared the things you like, I promise."  
  
Ugh. I was terribly thirsty, but food sounded most unappetizing. As if the very thought provoked it, my insides clenched with nausea and before I could stop it I retched, a terribly bitter dark liquid spattering its way across my bedsheets.   
  
Aragorn and Gandalf wasted no time, the king grabbing a basin and the wizard easing me onto my side and holding a cool cloth to my forehead as I vomited. The passage all the way from my stomach to my throat burned with the effort and something plopped out of my mouth---a poultice of some kind. And when at last no more liquid came forth dry heaves attacked, and I fancied I resembled a mad dog slobbering over the basin.   
  
I had seen a mad dog in the Shire one time---frothing and foaming at the mouth as it staggered about. A miserable sight, it was. I was only a child at the time, living in Buckland, but I well remember my elders forbidding us to go outdoors until it was captured.   
  
"Mad . . . dog . . ."  
  
I heard Gandalf speak questioningly to Aragorn. "What is he referring to?" the wizard asked.   
  
"I am not certain. Here now, Frodo, lie back, that's it." Carefully they settled me among the pillows and covered me up lightly. I couldn't help but curl up, shivering and drenched with sweat. I could recall feeling sicker only a few times in my life---last October and then again upon waking in Ithilien.   
  
"Mad dog . . ." I repeated, not quite sure if I was out of my head or not. "Gandahf?"  
  
"I am here, my boy." The wizard wiped my face and rubbed my damp back in circles. I must say, his old hands were soothing, perhaps not so much due to their movement as to the fact that even weeks after waking in Ithilien, I still marveled at his being alive.   
  
I heard the door opening and a patter of footsteps, followed by Sam's voice, which was also so reassuring to hear. "I've that tray, Mr. Strider." I heard his voice grow soft as he approached. "How's he doing?"  
  
"Ill," Aragorn answered, moving a bit to sit behind me. "His fever appears to be rising. Legolas has readied a bath . . . I believe immersing him in lukewarm water will be more effective than the sponging down we gave him earlier. Thank you, Sam . . . let's sit him up a bit so that he can drink."  
  
I wasn't happy about moving, it did nothing for my headache, but when Aragorn leaned me against his chest, keeping me covered with a sheet, it was fairly comfortable and for some reason I felt quite content.   
  
"There now," he said, "let us start with something cool to drink. And then the medicine." He brought a cup to my lips to tempt me, wetting them, and I did drink, for I was so very thirsty . . . . It tasted quite wonderful, too; more of that refreshing raspberry tea I faintly recalled having earlier.   
  
Unfortunately in mid-sip an intense pain washed through my jaw, spreading outward up to my head and down my neck. Stifling a cry, I clutched at my blankets. "Hurts . . ."  
  
"I know," Aragorn soothed, glancing up at Gandalf. "Rest a moment, Frodo, then we'll try again. Legolas, would you bring the catnip powder over? It should stay on his tooth for a bit even as he eats and drinks, and it will certainly help dull the pain."  
  
A moment later the elf was leaning over me. "Open your mouth for me, Frodo."  
  
Hesitantly I did, allowing Legolas's nimble fingers to gently sprinkle a pungent-but-pleasant substance into the back of my mouth. I nodded in grateful thanks---already it was helping to take some of the sting and ache out.   
  
When I finished the tea, there were more foodstuffs to get through: herbed tea, sweet with honey and ginger; strained chicken broth; a rich beef broth; sweet peach foam; and applesauce. Unfortunately I couldn't drink these last two and Aragorn had to feed me with a spoon. I was humiliated to see it was apparently a baby's spoon, brought so that I didn't have to open my mouth wide to eat, but after a few tries, I was grateful for it.   
  
"He is growing weary," I heard Aragorn say above my head after I had slumped even more in his arms and could barely open my mouth any more. My stomach was feeling strange, too---burning and cramping low down in my belly. "But you did very well, Frodo. I think it is time for the medicine while you are still alert enough to drink it."  
  
Medicine. I wasn't looking forward to it----surely it would taste vile. But to my dismay another feeling made itself clear---I needed a chamber pot, and mighty quick.   
  
To be continued 


	9. Fever, Tonics, and Swishes

FIC: A LITTLE AFFLICTION 9/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: PG-13   
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.   
  
Warning: There is graphic medical detail in this story---*most especially* in this chapter. If bodily functions and non-sexual hobbit backside tending offends you, please don't continue. As usual, I must give HUGE thanks and hugs and hobbit cuddles to Frodo Baggins of Bag End, the utmost in hobbit dieticians, who is my "food consultant" for this story.   
  
****  
  
I have no idea what ingredients were in that terrible brew I had drunk, but they certainly weren't agreeing with my insides and I gasped, grimacing against the cramp in my stomach. As if things weren't unpleasant enough, now I had to cope with unpredictable bowels. I only hoped this didn't last long---I well remembered the preferred treatment in the Shire for such an ailment.   
  
"Chamb . . . chamb pot," I managed, weakly grasping at Aragorn while placing my other hand on my stomach and pressing slightly in an attempt to relieve the discomfort. I must have been effective in conveying my urgency, for no sooner had I spoken than they were all moving swiftly, Aragorn settling me among a pile of pillows while Sam pulled the covers back and hitched the hem of my nightshirt up. Gandalf lifted my bottom as Aragorn slid the pot beneath it just in the nick of time. It was cold on my bare backside and I shivered, grateful when Sam tucked another quilt over my chest.   
  
"There, Mr. Frodo, you just rest and let us take care of you. After this, I've a nice hot tea, and Mr. Strider has medicine, then he says you need to sip as much broth as you can to keep your strength up. We've got some peach froth, with a little honey just the way you like it, and a bit of milk punch just like my Gaffer used to fix might not hurt a thing, I'm thinkin' . . ."  
  
I nodded, suddenly very dizzy. If not for the fact that I felt on the verge of passing out, I would have been quite embarrassed when the hot liquid stool rushed out of me, seemingly never-ending. Retaining consciousness took quite an effort---that is, until the vomiting started up again, forcing Sam and Aragorn to gently keep me fixed onto the pot while Gandalf and Legolas held my head and a basin, respectively.   
  
"You will be feeling better soon, Frodo," Legolas soothed, his kind eyes meeting mine as he moved a sweaty tendril from my forehead. "This part of it should be over very quickly."  
  
I certainly hoped so. The whole business was altogether intensely painful, not to mention extremely humiliating. But at last my retching ceased, and I could tell the well that was my bowels had finally dried up too, thank goodness. I tried to move---to form words of thanks and to apologize for putting everyone through this---but found I was so spent I could only moan weakly as Gandalf dabbed at my lips with a cloth and Aragorn removed the chamber pot, placing a clean towel under my buttocks as he did so.  
  
Now, because my insides had acted up, my bladder decided to as well. But the pot was aloft, borne in the king's hands and headed toward the door . . . a most dire occurrence . . .   
  
"Nee' it back, pleash!" I astonished myself by raising my voice to be heard above the bustle of the others---Sam fetching linens, Gandalf pouring tea, Legolas sprinkling something in the bath-water---but luckily, Aragorn heard me and returned swiftly, understanding my predicament.   
  
He and Sam turned me and helped me with that, and I decided right then and there that I hadn't a whit of dignity left. However, in all honesty, it was very reassuring to have friends who cared enough to tend to me so. I suppose they had all been tending me for some time, but the hours before I awoke were still rather a blur.   
  
I'd hoped the next few minutes would be a blur as well . . . but to my chagrin they weren't.  
  
"Now, we'll just get your bottom cleaned up, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"Here, pull your legs up a bit, Frodo---you shall have a bath in a moment, but I wish to make certain you are sponged off well, to guard against a skin rash or irritation . . ."  
  
I'm certain my face was bright red as Legolas helped me rinse my mouth out with fresh, not-too-hot tea while Sam and Aragorn stripped my gown away as I lay on my side and proceeded to clean my soiled bottom. I didn't much take to having to draw my legs up as they wiped me down there---but nevertheless, they were swift, and being clean was certainly better than the alternative.   
  
Leaving me naked but covering me warmly with a sheet, Aragorn all too soon brought the promised steaming cup of hot medicine over. "It's not too bad, I promise. Certainly not as bad as some of the things you have had before."  
  
I shook my head. My head ached and my stomach felt so sick I wasn't keen on drinking anything else at the moment.   
  
"All right." Pursing his lips, the king adopted his no-nonsense look and handed the cup to Gandalf. "He absolutely must drink this, as it is the strongest thing available for halting the infection."  
  
Nodding, the wizard sat down on my other side, which did not bode well for me at all. Usually Gandalf's help was employed when I was at my most stubborn, and I'd been through this before in Rivendell and even Ithilien. The wizard could be very persuasive.   
  
"Hmmm . . . doesn't smell too bad," he commented, sniffing the cup. "Come now, just take very small sips, Frodo. I daresay if Bilbo were here you would drink it for him, and I would be quite hurt to come through fire and smoke and death only to find you would do less for me, my dear hobbit. Now, will you cooperate?"  
  
Grudgingly, I blinked in assent, feeling quite contrite, and the wizard put a hand to the back of my head and carefully raised it, putting the cup to my lips. Truthfully, the concoction wasn't as distasteful as I had supposed it might be. There were some very odd things in there, but it was heavily sweetened and quite gingery. Apparently Aragorn had done what he could to make it palatable.   
  
"Now, Frodo," Gandalf said, reaching for more cups on the table, "here is more you must drink, and Aragorn tells me it will greatly help your aches. And then two syrups---peppermint and blackberry, smells like, to calm your stomach and insides."  
  
I downed all I could with Gandalf's help, grateful when he allowed me to lie back on my pillows once again, for I was trembling and feeling hot and cold at the same time. Although I wore no clothing, the sheets beneath me and on top of me seemed rather damp with sweat. And I suddenly had the strangest sensation, too, when he lay me back down . . . a very faint pain in my chest. But it was nothing compared to the rest of me, and so I was easily able to ignore it.   
  
"All right, Frodo," Aragorn said, removing my covers and gently scooping me up in his arms, "we have a tub prepared . . . it should help lower your fever and ease your rest considerably."  
  
I sighed, as a bath actually did sound pleasing, ill as I felt, and indeed the warmish water as I was lowered into the tub soothed my overheated skin. Aragorn placed a pillow behind my head to keep it upright as Sam and Legolas gently rubbed me with soft towels. There was some sort of herb in the water, as well as athelas, for a refreshing smell enveloped me and I grew drowsy as I lay there, pondering what the elf had said to me earlier when I'd asked if I had hurt anyone while delirious.   
  
I had asked that, hadn't I? My brain was so fuzzy now I wasn't altogether certain what was real and what wasn't. But the elf's response did worry me---perhaps I had harmed someone very seriously while under the influence of the brew.   
  
"Leg'las," I began, whispering low as he bent to rub my chest, "wha . . . wha' did I do when I was ill? Did I . . . hur' anyone?"   
  
He looked at my face and smiled softly, laying a hand on my brow. "No, Frodo. You fought us, but did no permanent harm. Perhaps a few bruises, that is all." A quite mischievous expression I couldn't decipher crossed Legolas's face. "You must ask Aragorn about it when you are well again."   
  
Well, I would do that, if I could only remember to . . . "Where'r Merry and Pip?"  
  
"Resting or on duty. They sat with you while you were sleeping and will be back soon." He grinned, slipping an arm about my shoulders and holding me close as he washed my back. "We had to force them to go, you know. Why, even young Peregrin would not willingly leave your side to take a meal, and that is saying something. Now, we shall have to work on Samwise."  
  
Sam, who was laying out fresh towels now, overheard, glaring at the elf and putting his hands on his hips. "Beggin' your pardon, but I don't think I'm going anywhere while my master is so sick . . . food or no food. I can eat sitting in here by his bed just the same as anybody."  
  
I wanted to smile at him, but my head and jaw were aching so, and it felt quite fine when they returned me to the bed and dried me off, dressing me in a soft nightshirt and tucking me in amongst clean, fresh-smelling sheets and pillows. Someone---Aragorn, I think it must have been---laid a hand on my brow, then my chest, feeling.   
  
"The bath seems to have helped, at least for now. Sam, have you the water mixture?"  
  
"Aye, Mr. Strider, but he's not going to like it a bit, I'll warrant."  
  
"Be that as it may, we must get him to take it," and here a strong arm went about my shoulders, raising me a few inches off the bed as a small cup touched my lips. "Frodo, this is a warm salt-water mixture I want you to swish around in your mouth. Do not swallow it, all right? Just let it sit in your mouth a minute or two and spit it back out into this basin Sam is holding. It might sting or burn initially, but it will eventually help draw out the soreness and swelling."  
  
"Mmmm-right."  
  
It was terribly salty and I nearly gagged, continuing only because of Aragorn's soothing voice urging me to drink and spit. Several repeat rinses followed, and by the time I had finished, I was sure I'd gone through a very tall glass of water.   
  
"Very good, Frodo," Aragorn said, and blinking, I could see he was smiling slightly. "I am sorry for the taste, but I promise, it will help. Now, we've another poultice to place." With his arm still supporting me he eased my mouth open---not a fun thing to have done, I'll be the first to admit---and inserted something, gently lodging it in the back atop my terribly sore gum. That was nearly the last I was aware of, for my eyelids were so very heavy, and curling up slightly in his arms, I fell into a restless doze.   
  
To be continued 


End file.
